


Stumbling, tripping, falling

by NO2800



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: :), Angst and Feels, Complicated - Freeform, Damn, F/M, Love, Pining, They're IN LOVE BUT STUPID SHITS, This Is STUPID, Unresolved Feelings, i hate myself but i love them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-03
Updated: 2017-09-03
Packaged: 2018-12-19 21:22:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11906463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NO2800/pseuds/NO2800
Summary: He wishes he knew how to quit her. He wishes he knew how to turn off the Pavlovian response of fight or flight reflexes, heartbeat picking up, fluttering eyelids and want his body seems to have to strawberry blonde hair, red lips, quick wit and high IQ.High school wasn’t supposed to end with them not being together, but it did.(or: Stiles and Lydia are stupid - but hopefully, they'll work it out.)





	Stumbling, tripping, falling

**Author's Note:**

> AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAhhhh
> 
> Oh my gosh. I don't even know if this fic makes any sense. But like... it does to me. Just remember that Stiles is an unreliable narrator, and he's like, feeling all of these different things. 
> 
> I'll probably go back and clean this mess up in a while but as it is right now... please enjoy. (or don't, that's completelty up to you.) :) But please do :) Bathe me in feedback please. Bye.

”I wish I knew how to quit you.”

  
Stiles tears up, he can admit as much to himself. However, if the way Scott is glancing at him above the pillow he’s currently hugging to his chest, he should probably keep that confession to himself, if not only to spare himself further teasing about being a hopeless romantic. He isn’t. Jake Gyllenhaal just really knows how to deliver a line. So does Heath Ledger. Stiles really isn’t a hopeless romantic.

  
He isn't, because lately he’s feels like he has been giving up on Lydia, and the line itself may hit a little close to home. He wishes he knew how to quit her. He wishes he knew to turn off the Pavlovian response of fight or flight reflexes, heartbeat picking up, fluttering eyelids and want his body seems to have to strawberry blonde hair, red lips, quick wit and high IQ. But, he can't.

  
He knows she notices. Because she’s been looking at him when she thinks he doesn’t see. He does though, because it’s Lydia Martin and he sees everything about her. Even the way she hurts and hides. Even the way she looks away when she sees him reaching for her, because it’s easier to not let him if you pretend you didn’t see.  
High school wasn’t supposed to end with them not being together, but it did. They kissed twice in that goddamn locker-room and really, he didn’t think it was going to come something out of it the first time. The second time though, could he really be blamed for hoping?

  
She said she loved him (well, practically she _did_ open up a rift between worlds with it after all, if not actually uttering the words out loud), they kissed ( _again_ ) and they ran through the school with hands clasped together. Everyone was looking at them like they thought the same thing. So he revelled in that.

Just, when all the fight died down and he looked back to Lydia he realized that his hand was empty, and that she was looking away.

  
And maybe he should’ve fought, maybe he should’ve gone over to her house that same night and demand they talk. But he was tired of fighting. He fought every damn second of his life. He wished instead of walking through fire and hell for something, that this something could just for once quietly come creeping up the porch-steps to his house and knock on _his_ door.

So he didn’t fight.

  
Next time he saw Lydia it was like an unspoken agreement. They sat down next to each other at lunch, pretended to bicker over her choice of sandwich and did everything they used to. They just didn’t look at each other while doing it, and acted as if burnt if they accidently touched.  
They did a poor job of it though, judging by the way every other gaze he met softly and sadly slipped down his face. He took note of how his father pushed the mug she always used at their house to the back of the cabinet and how Malia tried to cheer him up by tripping freshmen in the hallway. Even Liam put in the effort of not making out with Hayden in front of them.  
It's blatantly obvious, almost so physical that you can touch it, but no one says a thing, least of all Stiles and Lydia.

It gets to him though, how he’s the receiver of sad looks and pats on the back, like he was rejected, when really, he’s not even sure if it’s not the other way around. Communication has never been his and Lydia’s strong suit. They talk about everything between heaven and earth, yet nothing gets said.  
Instead they usually talk _about those things_  with drooping eyelids, heavy gazes and hands ending up weird places. They talk like that all the time. They’re fucking masters of that kind of communication. Or they used to be.

He guesses by the way Lydia stands a little bit too far away for it to be conversational distance, and holds her books tight to her chest when she asks him if she could drive him up to DC is also a way of that kind of communication. If the way he shuts his locker and his gaze flickers down to his shoes when he tells her that his dad will be driving him is any indicator, it definitely is.

  
So, can he _really_ be blamed for tearing up just a tiny bit while watching Brokeback Mountain with Scott in his dorm room? Stiles answer would be no.  
Apparently, Scott’s isn’t.

  
He blinks as he notices that the screen has been paused and has a feeling that he picked this up way to slow for Scott not to think something is up. His heart plummets in his chest as he lowers the pillow he’s been hugging down between them on his bed and tries to will the look in his best friend’s eye away.

  
“Scotty! Why’d pause? We were getting to the best-“

  
“She loves you, you know that right?”

  
His throat feels tight at the interruption and they stare at each other in silence. The thing about the Scott’s stupidly earnest gaze is that it never falters. Stiles already knows he won’t be able to worm his way out of this conversation by that exact gaze, and yet, he tries.  
He waggles his eyebrows as his throat burns with something he refuses to recognize as he speaks up.

  
“Whom? If you’re talking about Anne Hathaw-”

  
Scott just shakes his head.

  
“Stop that. You’ll make me angry.”

  
His tone is as calm as ever, but Stiles knows he doesn’t mean angry in the usual sense. He means disappointed-angry. The way your parents are when you’ve taken a crayon to the living room wall and tried to hide it. The worst kind. The Scott-is-an-alpha-who-worries-about-his-packees-kind. Or maybe just the best friend kind.

  
“She loves you man. Like, as in in love-loves you, not the other way.” Scott worries as Stiles looks down to his lap.

They’re quiet for a moment, and that’s okay.  
Stiles tries to come up with a way to deliver the feeling inside of him in words. It’s harder than you would think, and he has thought about it a lot. He has been staring at her contact on the screen of his phone countless times, trying to prison those exact emotions into a sentence, but the words just won’t come. So every time he has locked his phone and stuffed it down his pocket again, trying not to metaphor that action into something it’s not.

  
“It’s not that easy Scott.” He finally manages while staring at the wall opposite where he’s currently perched on his bed.  
Scott shakes his head again, more violently this time.

  
“You’re wrong dude. It is that easy, I swear! Literally all you have to do is to drive over there and tell her how you feel and then-“

  
“And what if I don’t want to do that?” Stiles interrupts.

  
The lump in his throat is suddenly harder to swallow. He tears his eyes from the shelf of trophies his jock-roommate (who is actually nice) has put up to impress his weekly coming ladies and gentlemen. His line of vision lands on Scott again. Scott whom, for once looks a little but baffled, mixed with a lot of confliction.  
When he speaks again his voice is lined with confusion.

  
“You don’t- You don’t love her?”He pauses momentarily.  
“As in in love-love her?”

  
Stiles sighs as he leans back more heavily on the wall behind him. Isn’t that the thing?  
“I do.”

  
Scott looks like he has pushed 1+1 into his calculator and the answer somehow didn’t come out as 2. It would be funny, if it wasn’t for the fact that it’s not.

  
“So why…?”

  
He doesn’t actually have to voice the question. They both know what he is asking, and Stiles gets why he is wondering, he does. This is the girl Stiles has had a crush on since the third grade. The girl he fell in love with in high school. The girl who presumably loves him back. Scott wonders why Stiles, who puts up a fight for anything, like which brand of cereal to buy at the store, won’t anymore when it comes to this girl.

  
He throws his hands up as he shrugs, dragging in a deep breath.  
“I just- I came back Scott. I came back and she is the one who pulled me back. So I thought that it was supposed to be easy afterwards. We kissed and we kinda said it, but I guess not really and... And I guess I thought that Lydia freaking Martin would actually kiss me again the next time she saw me… or something. Be with me. I thought we were supposed to be simple.”

  
Thinking furrows Scott’s brow as he listens. His fingers are picking at his jeans and Stiles can practically see the cogwheels in his mind turning this information over. He glances over at Stiles and Stiles glances back.

  
“You two were never really simple though, were you? I mean Stiles… you know Lydia. You know how she works and if you don’t reassure her or…”

  
“The way I see it,” and Stiles truly hates the way his voice is thick with emotion as he speaks up.  
“The way I see it, I’ve reassured her enough. The way I see it, I would love some reassurance myself. Y’know?”

  
Finally something seems to click in Scott, because the next time he looks over there’s understanding painted in the brown of his eyes.

  
“For once Scott, I would love to not be the one who drives all night to get to her and confess my feelings. I mean, sooner or later I probably will but… right now, that’s not what I want. Right now I want to sit here and tear up at Brokeback fucking Mountain.”

  
He turns his gaze back to the freezed picture on the televison.

  
"Although albeit not exclusively to the fucking parts." He adds, mostly to reassure Scott.

  
And after placing an irritatingly comforting hand on his shoulder, Scott doesn’t say anything else. He just picks up the remote with his other hand, and presses play.

 

 

***************

 

 

“I mean, they’re ridiculous Scott. I seriously don’t understand why you have the urge to push these two idiots that can’t even give each other a phone call, into what will be the most dysfunctional relationship in this universe?”

  
The to-go coffee cup is scalding against his fingers as Scott manoeuvres himself over to one of the small tables in Starbucks while simultaneously holding a stack of books and his backpack with the other hand, _and_ tries to keep a conversation on the phone pressed between his ear and shoulder.

  
“It won’t be. They love each other.”  
He answers Isaac as he finally is able to dump his things into the small booth were Kira is already seated. Isaac groans on the other end of the line. He was in America for once, and were currently visiting Lydia on campus as Chris took care of business in Boston.

  
“And sometimes, loving each other isn’t enough.”

  
Kira raises her eyebrows in question at the phone and he mouths Isaacs name in lieu of answer.

  
“Stiles and Lydia?” She whispers back, and he nods.

She seems content with that as she turns back to the paper laid out in front of her and keeps sipping on her tea.

Every time Scott is with her like this, so simply, a strange comfort lands in him. To watch his girlfriend, Kira, not the lightning-Kitsune, sit across from him reading up for an exam, instead of preparing for battle. Like how when he’s sitting alone in this booth at night, he pictures Allison from across the table. It’s not in a bitter way, it’s not that Kira is a replacement of any kind, but that’s one of his few private moments, and he finds odd comfort in that too. In that small what-could’ve-been, or just the thought of her maybe.

  
He sighs. Stiles and Lydia is just such a complicated puzzle to lay out. His is simple, it’s like one of those children toys. One circle, one cubicle, one triangle and one rectangle, simple and obviously seamlessly fitting into their space. Theirs’s however, he gets almost nervous thinking of all faucets of it. Their puzzle is like trying to fit together two thousand pieces picturing a clear blue sky. He wouldn’t even dare to try it, but the two of them has this knack for figuring things out, and he has the creeping suspicion that the both of them actually knows the place for every single piece, but that they’re still pretending to try and fit them because they’re scared of what the finished picture will show them. That maybe they won’t be in it together.

  
Personally, Scott thinks that is ridiculous.

  
“It is with the two of them.” He answers Isaac as he blows on his coffee for good measure.

He swears he can hear the fight curling on the other werewolf’s tongue. Isaac would just love to keep this argument up because he and Stiles has this always ongoing fight between them and Isaac would hate to lose something in it. But he knows Scott is right, and he wouldn’t really keep his friends apart. Scott knows he’s mostly just worrying about the both of them getting more hurt, which is typically Isaac.  
He harrumphs on the phone and is quiet for a beat.

  
“I just don’t get the problem I guess.” He says finally, voice softer, and then Scott wants to sigh. Because the thing is, he sort of gets Stiles, but he sort of gets Lydia too, and really, he thinks both of them are ridiculous, but at the same time not.  
Lydia, whom in a light and airy tone had told him that-

  
_“I just don’t want him to feel like he has too. It’s… he thought that there was a big chance he wasn’t coming back when he said that. I just don’t want us to rush into something neither of us are ready for because the both of us were pushed to admit to things we maybe weren’t mature enough in to admit.”_

Referring to the both of them finally admitting their feelings. Like, finally.  
God, did they know how to tangle something up. 

  
“Dude, I don’t think anyone does.” Scott answers and Isaac snorts loudly on the other end.

  
“So I have to drag Lydia Martin home for Christmas while you just have to tell Stiles there’ll be candy and stupid hats? Seems unfair.” Isaac remarks in a more humorous tone.

  
“Fine, then you get Stiles.” Scott replies with a smirk, lifting the mug to his lips. Great thing about having the healing-abilities of a werewolf? You can drink superhot coffee without a care in the world.

  
“Having to drag Lydia home will be a privilege.” Isaac surrenders in an overly sweet voice and Scott smiles.

  
“She’s coming out of class now though, so I’ve got to go. See you in BH?”

  
“See you in BH.” Scott agrees and then the beeping that signals a finished call errupts in his ear.

  
“I thought you were the one saying not to interfere like, only a month ago?” Kira asks carefully glancing up at him as he pockets his phone.

  
“Were not interfering. Were just… taking away the distance.” Scott offers her, and she nods, silently looking back down.

  
But he swears he sees her smile towards her paper and he is relatively certain it isn't because of the picture of Donald Trump lining it at the bottom.

  
He smiles then too.

 

 

***********

 

 

There are Christmas lights wrapped around the railing to the McCall’s porch when he pulls up in the Jeep. They twinkle on him as he jumps out and the door shuts behind him with a heavy thud. It’s cold enough out for Stiles to wear a sweater, a jacket _and_ a hat which says a lot, because this part of northern California still usually doesn’t get that cold in winter time.

  
It’s Mini-Christmas with the pack. Mini-Christmas usually means too much eggnog, silly presents, dancing to whatever bad list of remixes of Christmas-song Liam has put together and watching The Grinch on channel six.  
The ball of anxiety in his gut as he takes the steps up the porch reminds of something else it used to be. It used to be Lydia with cheeks tinted pink by the eggnog and big eyes as she blinked up at him coloured by the same lights now blinking the over him as he twists the handle of the door. It used to be sitting pressed up against each other in the left corner of the couch with linked fingers that they pretended meant nothing, but that he know suspects meant everything.

  
He hasn’t seen her in almost four months and he realizes, as he steps inside and Kira runs over to greet him with a hug, that nothing has changed for him. He told himself it had, he told himself that the girls he brought home with him after a night out, in a manner so unlike him, and the way he was growing his hair out meant that it had, but he can see her coat amongst the others as he wraps his arms around Kira’s shoulders and he knows that it hasn’t.

Boy does that suck. It sucks even harder than the tropical-house remix of Baby It's Cold Outside currently playing on the speakers.

  
“You’re actually on time. I can’t believe it.”

  
His eyes snaps up at the sound of Lydia's voice as he lets go of Kira. The tentative moment hangs in the air for the second it takes for him to straighten up and actually look at her. He can practically sense what the other's are thinking and wants to roll his eyes.

  
_Will they or won’t they? What does this mean? Is everything as it used to be? Have they talked? Should they?_

  
He can hear the chatter of everyone elses in the house thoughts, except for hers. From her position at the bottom of the stairs, all he hears is stony cold silence. It’s all he's heard since the end of August. They haven’t talked. Barley sent a text every other week, which the one who receives usually doesn’t feign to answer, because mostly it’s just sporadic facts. Him sending his dads best regards to her, or her supplying him of a picture of something they might’ve discussed a long time ago. It’s a poor cover-up but it makes do. Because if anyone asks if they’re all right they can always respond with the latest sporadic fact from each other.

“Things change Martin.” He offers, and wishes it didn’t sound like he meant something else.

But her expression doesn’t break and she just raises her cup of beverage to her lips as she nods in answer. That seems to spur everyone else into action and he starts to greet the others. He gets his own mug showed into one hand, gets Hayden making eyes at him (because she and Liam broke up again and he knew she always thought he was hot), gets Isaac remarking on his choice of ugly Christmas sweater and Malia talking into his ear over the loud Santa Claus Is Coming To Town – house party-remix.

All this while never really breaking eye contact with her. Because he hasn’t seen her for almost five months, her corner may be silent but her eyes are soft and something has changed although he thought it hadn’t but said it had. Because before he left they talked and talked and talked and couldn’t bear to look each other in the eye, but where they talked and talked and talked now all that seems to be is this unwavering stare.

  
Scott is his secret Santa and he gets a book of recipes which warms him unexpectedly. Mason gets a heat-up blanket from eBay and Malia is given a full day of shopping from Lydia which they immediately start to argue about. Of course Danny and Ethan has each other, and _of course_ they both give each other cards with free make-out sessions.  
They all start to hover around the couch when they know that The Grinch is about to start and when the left corner of the couch is left with a small opening for him next to Scott his throat tightens and he glances at Lydia on the armchair with her eyes fixed on the not yet turned on TV.

  
“I’m just gonna-“He clears his throat as he meets Scott eyes and vaguely gestures with his thumb for the hallway.  
“I’m just gonna get some air, but you guys go ahead and start with the movie.”

He swallows thickly as ten pair of eyes is suddenly looking up at him sadly and he knows any attempts of his and Lydia’s cover-ups has been fruitless. It’s obvious by how the eleventh pair is still averted away.

  
“Alright.” Scott answers and Stiles nods once before putting down his eggnog and turning his back to all of them.

  
The cold air feels like a good decision as he walks out. It’s nearing midnight and it’s completely dark outside. He wraps his fingers around the railing, carefully avoiding any Christmas lights getting squashed and leans forward. Sometimes he feels like he belongs out here in the dark, longingly looking in on the warmth of the livingroom.  
A couple of minutes pass before the door opens behind him once again. He isn’t really surprised, he knew she’d come after him eventually. Just like he knows that she doesn’t like eating outside and hates the trainer-shoe trend. It’s simple. Or it used to be.

“Too much eggnog?” She asks as she comes to stand beside him.

He doesn’t look over, keeps staring out over the backyard but he feels her arm brush his as she lets one of her own hands rest on the railing.

  
“No.” He answers, because it’s just the two of them out here and he doesn’t really feel like not being honest with her.

He wishes she would’ve come after him. He wishes he would've went after her. Instead, they have spent four months apart not uttering a word of importance. Thing is, he thinks they could’ve spent those four months next to each other and their situation would still have looked like this. He wishes he knew how to quit her, but he doesn’t.

  
“You have been busy.” She remarks next.

  
By those four words he knows that she knows that he’s been bringing home other girls. Just like by those four words he knows that she hasn’t brought any one home at all. He also knows that it doesn’t matter to either of them, because it doesn’t have anything to do with this thing between them. Not really.  
His grip on the railing hardens.

“You wouldn’t know.”

That seems to get to her though, because he feels her turning to look at him, and has he ever been able to resist doing the same thing when she does that?  
His eyes land in line with hers and as his heart squirms trying to get closer to her he already knows the answer he's awaiting.

  
“That’s not fair.” She says, but her voice is small and she is looking curled in on herself in a way that isn’t Lydia-like at all. He hates how she is trying to make herself small when everything about her is enormous. Which only makes him hate himself even more.

“I know.” He offers and she nods once, eyes falling to the floor.

Her hands hang by her sides and her maroon skirt shuffles around her thighs as the wind sighs on them.  
He wants to reach out, he wants to make it as simple as it had been in that moment when he saw her again after those three months in the hunt. This space has carved between them somehow, and he’s not sure how to fix it but he knows he wants to. He wants her, of course. But it's not as simple anymore.

“I’m going back inside.” She announces him a moment later when the silence stretches between them.

She turns to leave, but does turn back once, looking at him over her shoulder as she puts her hand on the doorknob. In that instance he feels like reaching out to grab her wrist and pull her to him, feels like letting her name slip between his lips. But he doesn’t, and then the door closes and she’s gone.

When he comes back inside a while later Scott makes room for him on the couch once again and when he sits down, he lays his blanket over both of their knees.

 

 

********

 

 

It feels inevitable when they run into each other a week later in the grocery store. When he sees her standing in the aisle looking at pickled cucumber he feels like he should’ve know that he’d run into her here the day he was born. That’s how inevitable it feels. He kind of wants to hide, but he can’t. It would ridiculous for him to hide. He’s a grown man and grown men do not rush over to the bread aisle to hide from their… whatever. They don’t. Right?

  
The moment he actually starts to consider it though, she looks up from the etiquette she’d currently been reading and spots him. He almost sighs at familiarity of it. Long lashes, small hands and all.

  
“Stiles?” She asks and he wills away any earlier thoughts of running.

  
“That would be me.” He greets her and wants to wince, because considering the subject for their last conversation that probably isn’t a great opener. Lydia doesn’t seem bothered though, and he pushes his cart forward to get closer to her.

  
“Picking up some pickled treats?” He asks her, and swears he sees the hints of a smile in the corner of her mouth.

  
“My mom has the flu and were out of everything.” She nods over to where her cart is stood, filled to the brim with necessities. If one also considers hot cocoa, cookies and cheese doodles as something necessary. Which he does.

  
“Ah, pops had to pull some extra shifts so I was thinking I’d cook him something tonight.” He explains for himself although she didn’t ask.  
This time she actually smiles at him and he feels like something warm slips out from over the collar of her big fluffy jacket and curls around him.

“That’s nice.”

He nods as his eyes scan her face, taking her in properly. She’s barley wearing make-up and he can see the tips of her hair still wet from the shower.

“So how are Nathalie holding up with you in Boston?” he finds himself asking.

It’s not only out of curtesy, but also because he actually wants to know. He has all these questions boiling inside of him that he wants to ask her. Things he has collected every day that they spent not talking, all these things that he cares about, because he cares about her. Is her roommate a mess? Are her professors any good? Is Prada doing alright without her? How was her every day? What is she thinking about? Does she miss his peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches? What is the colour of her duvet, and did she know that in Sweden you can’t name a child Ikea so Phoebe was lying to them all along?

Here, in the aisle of the supermarket, he doesn’t feel like the last semester is hanging over them like a dark, heavy cloud. Or not as much at least. He doesn’t think about summer and kisses and angst curling in the pit of his stomach. Somehow he feels like he’s talking to his best friend Lydia again, and he doesn’t want it to stop.  
So they make small talk as they venture around the store together and it isn’t until they’ve both paid and are supposed to be headed in the direction of their cars that he feels something creep up on him again.

  
“So… I’m this way.” Lydia smiles, motioning, of course, for the end of the parking lot where his car isn’t stood.  
He nods and pulls on the sleeves of his jacket as he glances to where she has pointed.

“I’m um... I'm the other way.”

Their eyes meet and they look at each other for a moment before Lydia finally starts to move away, breaking contact.

“Well. Bye Stiles, give your father my-“

“Lydia.” He interrupts and he doesn’t know why.

She turns abruptly, eyes wide and lips slightly parted. He wants to kiss her. He wants to tell her all of these things on his mind. But as his heart leaps into his throat and she hurriedly brushes away a strand of hair from her forehead he can’t.

“Drive safe.” He offers weakly before turning around towards his car.

He feels her eyes burning in his neck to whole way there.

 

 

**********

 

 

It happens again a week later outside of the cinema.

They run in to each other for the second time.

He has just been by the station to drop of some case-files that he has, ah, _borrowed_ over the break, and is heading back to the Jeep which is parked a couple blocks away seeing as he had run some other errands too. (Errands equaling buying the new Black Ops editon and staring long and hard at a pair of converse before deciding that no, eight pairs _is_ enough. They're just so shiny when they're new y'know? Whatever.)

She spots him first. He knows she does, because when he looks up and suddenly meets her gaze she already looks kind of mortified and a lot like she's wishes she could be anywhere but where she currently is. He quirks an eyebrow and his hand is halfway up in a wave when he understands why that is. Because as he watches, some burly guy with far too even facial hair and way too much muscle-mass, exits the building behind her, slinging an arm over her shoulders, and he feels his own arm dropping down to his side again, as he becomes witness to what seems to be his personal emotional carcrash taking place right in front of him. Lydia is on a _date_.

He desperatly wants to turn around, pretend he hasn't seen them, go mope in his car maybe, but he knows it's too late for that, and as they come to a awkward halt opposite each other on the street he feels strangely reduced to his freshman year of high school-self.

"Hi Stiles." Lydia squeaks out, and he wants to leave so intensely he is almost physically pained with it. GameStop bag in one hand and half empty slurpee mug in the other he has an sudden urge to flail out a hand and push past them, go home, grab his suitcases and go straight back to Washington. He doesn't though. Instead his eyes lingers on Lydia's for a moment longer, before moving over to her date. Instead of pushing past and going, another part of him takes control.

"Hi Lyds." He says, voice cool as he manages his mug and bag in one hand to offer up the free one to her company.

"Hi man, I'm Stiles." He greets him, voice surprisingly calm.

Worst part is, he thinks as he stays for a moment and holds a way too casual conversation without once looking over at her while feeling her gaze linger the side of his face, is that he's actually pretty decent. The other guy. Worst part is that it feels like his ribcage cracks open and spills out all of him that belongs to Lydia on the pavement between them.

He sees himself at twelve staring longingly at the back of her head in class. He sees himself at fifteen on his bed, trying to convince himself that he does _not_ have a stupid crush on her while all the same thinking of the skirt she had worn to school the day before. He sees a seven year old boy pushing her, making her step in a puddle at recess and laughing out loud, because liking a girl is _so_ uncool, but then leaving a anonymous note in her desk with a 'sorry' scribbled down on it in shaky handwriting. It's selfish in a way, he guesses, but he can't help it as he bids them goodbye a couple of minutes later. She's not his. She's not, and that's why it's selfish to feel this way. 

His hands are trembling and he kind of wants to grab her and drag her with him because, what even?

But she had him for so long with even having to try. She doesn't even need to try now either. She just needs to be, and she's still got him, clamped and small in the palm of her hand. It just hurts so fucking much.

That's all.

He sits alone in the Jeep staring out the window for a while before he starts the car and drives home, and as he does he can't even be bothered with turning on the radio.

 

 

*******

 

 

The next time he meets her all of the pack is gathered at Malia's ranch-house as her dad is out of town for the weekend. She's wearing a red plaid skirt, and as he reaches into the freezer for a beer he makes a silent vow to never touch that fabric again, shrugging of his own flannel on a chair in the kitchen. He's childish and unfairly angry at her, but to be honest every single person currently in the house knew what they were signing up for when they became his friend, and childish and unfair doesn't exactly stray from the contract.

They're not really drinking, because the wolves can't get drunk and all that. But as the evening proceeds he finds himself starting to stretch out more over the couch, getting handsy with whoever's next to him on it. Mason seems actually, seriously, wasted as he moans on and on about Brett to Malia who is downing beer after beer simply for the _taste_ , actively ignoring him in favour of staring at the space between Scott and Isaac on the couch looking like she wishes she could squeeze into the millimeters left unclaimed there. Liam and Ethan are on the floor, probably doing push-ups or something, and Stiles spends most of his time snapchatting Kira, who couldn't get out of work, stupid pictures of himself in different filters.

Lydia is there too. Lydia's there on the armrest of Malia's chair, sipping on a cider and mutely participating in the unfocused conversation going on with looks and small smiles. He ducks his head down whenever he feels her eyes flickering his direction and hides behind the small aliminum shield his iPhone provides him. He doesn't think much of it, her gazes, when he gets up and annonuces he's going to get yet another beer, doesn't think much of it, that is, not until she speaks up behind him in the otherwise empty kitchen, having been able to follow him silently as her heels lays discarded by the door.

  
"We-" she begins and he yelps, surprised by the suddenly broken silence and clutches the bottle to his chest as he turns around on reflex. He sags against the counter as he sees her, splaying a hand over his chest to try and calm the abruptly increased speed of his heartbeat as his breath whoozes out of his lungs.

"Jeez Lyds. Way to give a guy some warning." He snaps at her in a way that's maybe a little too sharp. He regrets it as soon as she seems to shrink in a little bit on herself in front of him. Her gaze drops to the floor and silence stretches over the bumpy landscape of history between them, becoming not really uncomfortable but not relaxed either.

It's dark in the kitchen, the only source of light is the warm yellow slipping in together with the muted voices of the TV through the hallway from the living room. The light feels naively romantic and she hasn't uttered more than a word and yet he feels like he's fighting for the upper hand.

"You know..." she begins, wringing her hands infront of her and looking up but not at him.

"He's a really nice guy."

And _wow_. Does he not want to hear this.  
His fingers tighten around his bottle and he feels the corners of his mouth drag downwards.

"Lydia you really don't need to explain yoursel-"

"But he's not the same age as me." She interrupts, her eyes dragging over where his fingers are hugging the neck of the bottle. He feels his brow furrow, feels as if he's about to do something stupid.

"And he doesn't have like," She pauses, eyes climbing to the ceiling.

"This stupid sarcastic mouth that goes off at literally any given moment." She continues and suddenly he feels his heart rate picking up again from where it has only just started to calm. His palm slips a bit on the counter and he licks his lips as he stares at her.

"He doesn't have, you know, a boner for puzzels and mysteries and..." he snorts at her comment and he swears she almost smiles. He feels a hot blush flush his cheeks as she speaks. There's a hum in the air, hanging between them all of a sudden, almost tangible and he feels breathless with something about this that hasn't felt right in so long.

"He definetly did not have an seriously awful buzzcut at the age of sixteen. Thank god for that." She voices, eyes moving to the line of his shoulders.

"He doesn't make stupid jokes all the time and he doesn't make me feel like the best version of myself."

Her gaze finally lands in line with his hand it's so intense he swallows, mouth dry and the note of her voice suddenly serious.

"So there's that. And I thought you should know that."

Her eyes gleam at him in the dim light and he wants to wrap her up in his arms, but he is frozen in place, mouth glued shut as she speaks, feeling terrified for some reason.

"I just..." She whispers, trailing off, and he's not sure what his hands are doing anymore. Not sure what thoughts swirls in his mind. Just sure of her in front of him.

"I just thought you should know that." She finishes, lingering for a second before turning on the spot, leaving him stranded and voiceless in the kitchen. Alone and fifteen again as his eyes follows her skirt out of his line of sight.

 

 

*****

 

 

Rain splatters against the windscreen of the Jeep as he navigates through Beacon Hills. The mall is on the other side of town from where he lives and he honestly can't believe Scott would force him out of his eating-and-marathoning-Netflix bubble for this crap. Crap as in going shopping. For real, his best friend needs to get his priorities straight and that's probably the only reason why Stiles is even on his way there right now. That, and to maintain his best-friend-in-the-entire-world status. At least he's putting in the effort, god knows what Scott thinks he's doing for this relationship.

As he pulls up at the parking he is faced with another sad creation of Beacon Hills. "The Mall" is hardly big enough to be categorized as that. Or maybe it is. It still sucks. He knows nothing about malls. He does his shopping online or very unceremoniously walks into the first store he sees and buys whatever he needs. He thought this was also how Scott did things.

Apparently not though.

He gazes down at the text telling him to meet him up at the ugly fountain at the McDonald's that's iniside and sighs as he hears the rain lashing down. Then he turns his cap around the right way and jumps out of the car.

There's not a lot of people around and it's easy making his way over to their meeting place. He gets there, and since he can't really spot Scott anywhere he sits down. His eyes land on the truly hideous creation in front of him. He sits, stares, and blames Scott for making him do what he hates to do the most. Waiting. He's just about to dig his phone out of his pocket again, to call and yell at Scott, or snapchat Kira a picture of The Pure Ugliness to ask her go electrocute it on one of her free days or something, when he hears a distinctely familiar voice over his shoulder.

"Are you serious?" Lydia asks, and he turns just in time to see her stomp her foot as she sputters into her phone.

"Malia I _swear_ i will kill you myself if you don't show up."

He watches as her eyes widen at the response she's assumably reciving.

"I have not been moping to Adele. What even-"

"No that's-"

"Alright, but-"

Then, she holds out her phone to stare at the screen, apparently after being hung up upon. He almost smirks, caught up as he watches her grit her teeth and aggresively lock her phone, pushing it back into her purse with entirely too much force. He's therefore, completely taken by surprise when she looks back up and her eyes land directly on him. He feels his hands get clammy and his eyebrows shooting up, somehow feeling like he's just got caught in the middle of something he shouldn't be doing.

"Stiles?"

It sounds entirely too easy when his name slides off her tongue. Like it's nothing for her to say it. Like her name doesn't cling to the roof of his mouth together with the sinking sensation in his stomach every time he has to use it. Like he's not afraid to give away all of the want hiding between the letters of it _every, single, time_.

"Hi." He waves awkwardly and she walks over, hands tightening on the strap of her purse, but expression brightening. "What are you doing here?" She asks and he shoots her a small smile as she comes to a stop in front of him.

"Scott told me to..." He realizes as he speaks what this is. Lydia standing in front of him right now. It's a set up. Also, Scott's dead. He clears his throat. "Meet him here. But he hasn't shown up." His voice becomes flat as he finishes, suggestive in it's emptiness and as he looks at her he sees it dawn on her as well.

"Oh my god. They totally did it on purpose." She says, huffing as she crosses her arms over her chest. "I can't believe them!" She throws her hands up in the air, starting to pace. He kind of couldn't agree more."This could be one of their worst ideas yet." He agrees standing up and pushing his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. She stops before him again, staring up at him under knitted brows. "Not counting that time Scott thought he'd be able to talk that witch out of killing us which-"

"What did he tell you this was supposed to be?" She asks, ignoring him and looking a little bit like she's planning Scott's and Malia's joint funeral. She looks nice, he notes. She has some complicated braid-thing going on and there are small birds lining the hem of her dress. He swallows, eyes not really meeting hers, instead choosing to focus on one of her dimples as she purses her lips.

"He told me that he was going shopping and needed a taste advisor."

She snorts loudly, rolling her eyes at this.

"And you fell for it? You honestly thought he'd call you for clothing advise? Have you seen your own wardrobe?" She snaps impatiently.

It would be mean, like totally. But he has, in fact, seen his own wardrobe, so her point comes across loud and clear. His face must show it, because she nods with intent as he realizes his own stupidity.

"Exactly." She says, and he wants to counter. To reort. Because like, if he made downgrading comments about her closet, he'd be lying in a gutter right now.  
"And what exactly, pray and tell, did Malia told you she wanted to do?" He asks, hands coming out of his pockets and placing themselves at on his waist. Her eyes narrow at him as she mirrors his stance.  
"That she needed some milkshakes and manicures, which is completely reasonable considering her little-" She lifts her hand and wiggles her fingers suggestively, " _Problem._ " She emphasises heavily on the last word, while tilting her chin higher up in the air.

"Subtle." He comments, eyelids drooping as he fixes her with an unimpressed stare. She looks affronted and flicks him on the shoulder at that. Which is just... Did she really just flick him on the shoulder?

"About as subtle as Scott asking you to help him pick out plaid and yet, you didn't call wolf at that." She bites back, the small quirk lifting the left corner of her mouth informing him that she's incredibly pleased with herself over the wolf-pun. _God_ , was his company finally starting to rub of on her or something?

"Fine." He snubs back at her.  
"Fine." She answers.

They glare at each other for all of three seconds before one of them breaks. Unsurprisingly, it's him.

"So... What now?" He scrubs a hand over his jaw as he lets his eyes wander away from her to inspect their surrondings in lack of courage to look back to her.  
"Do we..." His voice fails him and he feels exposed all of a sudden. Like her daylight found it's way inside of his pulled down curtains at last, and now she'll be able to see what he's been hiding under there for so long. It's just... He doesn't want her to leave. He wants her to stay for as long as he possibly can have her. They're talking, and granted it's not about something important, but he thinks that the other night at Malia's might've been. He crosses his arms, as if to try and shut her out, and then, being the idiot that he is, he leaves the door inside wide open instead.

"Do we go home or... or do you want to-"

"Well, obviously we can't let them get away with this." Lydia sneers, interrupting him, but as he dares to meet her eye again there's something there. Something soft that tells him that she hasn't come to rob him or bare him out.  
Her arms uncurl from their stiff poisitons and she scrutinizes the nearby stores and cafés with a calculating look.

"They'll have to pay for this." She states, as if commenting on the weather.

"But personally, I could do with that milkshake while plotting a revenge plan. Sugar gives my evil side a kick."  
She says this as if she's merely letting him tag along on this new endeavour of hers. As if she's Lydia Martin and he may be her guest on the quest of destroying those she deems have failed her. She doesn't ask, and yet there is a question as she looks up at him, blinking rapidly and pushing an escaped hair back behind her ear. He comes to wonder if maybe he's not the only one who's just left the door to his house unlocked and wide open, bared and naked, but that perhaps, somehow, she has too.

Because she's asking a question without speaking it in words and he thinks that perhaps, somehow, Scott and the rest of them knew exactly what they where doing.

"Yes." He chooses to say. Over all of the things lying beneath his tongue waiting to be painted over her skin.

"Yeah, I could do with a Milkshake."

 

 

********

 

 

"Yes Lydia, just look at that."

"You like that don't you?"

"Oh my god.. I'm gonna-"

"Come on Stiles, keep going."

"Fuck."

He gazes longingly after the life-size bag doritos as he trails after Lydia further down the asile in the walmart they're currently at. He ogles the way her skirt brushes her legs as he follows after her, which he admittedly knows would be creepy, but he also knows that she kind of doesn't mind and for the record he catches her ogling his butt regularly so, there also that. He's completely okay with that by the way, like totally fine. Ogle away miss Martin. And... Where was he going with this again? 

"Were only picking up a few things." She reminds him, turning to give him a stern gaze over her shoulder, and he looks up just in time to be able to pretend he was only boy-next-door ogling the way her hair swishes around her waist. Which he know that he _is_ looking at it, can confirm is awesome as well. Strawberryblonde awesomeness on a stick pretty much. He throws up his hand to make a thumbs-up and almost knocks down a hose on the shelf he is currently passing while doing so. He thinks he can hear her sigh, but can't be sure over the clicking of her heels against the tiled floor.

He trails after her deeper into the store, pokes at a few things, almost topples over a dvd-rack and breaks _only one_ toy-truck, which he hides behind the tampoons two aisles over. She's a few meters ahead, dropping different items into the basket that's resting in the nook of her arm and pretends she doesn't know him when he fucks something up.

She's in the middle of politeley asking a employee for the direction of something when he finds himself standing to the side of them, staring dumbly at her, and it's not until then he wonders how the hell he ended up here.

Because a week ago they had been set up on a meet at the local mall, which had ended in sharing milkshakes and talking about everything _but_ a revenge plan. And then, two days later he had stumbled down the stairs to the front door, wringing it open to reveal a perfectly dressed Lydia giving him an unimpressed stare as he struggled to pull down his t-shirt while trying to press his head through the right arm of it. She had then proceeded to push past him, declaring offical Planet Earth Night with the argument that;

 _"David Attenbourghs voice is just so calming Stiles, honestly Morgan Freeman can go stick it."_ and then _naturally_ , an argument had been born after that statement because, no. Just no.

And then she had just kept showing up, the day after that one, and then the day after that one too. And then apparently, he had started showing up as well. Because somehow he had ended up jabbing his thumb down on the send button of a text at 11 p.m., telling her to come downstairs because the Jeep was already running on fumes and if they wanted to make it to Denny's before closing time they'd better hurry.

It was so easy to ignore the ache still present in his chest when she was beside him in Beacon Hills shitty Walmart or in the passenger seat of his Jeep. When she was not standing on Scott's porch with christmas-lights shadowing her face in the most captivating way and nowhere to fix her eyes. The way they were now, it wasn't forced. They didn't do it because they had to or because they were supposed to ease someone else. Truth was they had spent most of the last week alone. They were back to their 'us', slipping into the space next to each other with ease, and it didn't feel wrong or uncomfortable, instead it felt like fitting _just_ right.

But _truth was_ , that ache was still there, raw and sharp. Truth was, they hadn't talked, they had drifted for a while and he had been with others and she had went on a frickin' date. Truth was that, although they were next to each other and not on different universities she still felt miles away.Truth was he was still in love with her, and it was complicated in all the ways he wished it could be easy. But wishes couldn't take away facts, and fact was he was looking at the side of her face feeling like he still missed her so much it hurt.

But then she turns towards him, store-attendant still going on about something in front of her, and her eyes look bright and warm and she smiles at him in a unbashed way.

And then Stiles realizes that the real truth is that he was never brave, not in the ways that counts. So instead of saying anything, instead of voicing his concerns out loud, he smiles right back, feeling like he is dying a little bit with it, bleeding out on the dirty tiles next to the garden tools.

 

 

*****

 

"So you're dating?" 

He laughs out loud at Scott's question from where he is sitting in the passanger seat of Melissa's Prius. He doesn't know why, because honestly, it's not really funny.

"Try again." He says after clearing his throat.

They're already pulling up on her street though, so there isn't really time. Which is why Scott chooses to get straight to it, Stiles assumes. 

"So what then? You're pretending all of previous three years never happened?" Scott asks, eyebrows almost brushing his hairline and voice an octave higher than Stiles would usually prefer this early in the day.

He contemplates it as they pull up on her driveway and Scott sends a quick text telling her to come outside. It's not that thay're ignoring earlier events in their relationship, it's just that they're not talking about anything nearly related to that, and they're doing it completely on purpose. But ignoring previous three years would involve not sitting quietly just _looking_ at each other when they finally run dry of words, and ignoring previous three years would definietly have lashed out on how they seem to brush up against another at all times. 

She exits her front door, turns and waves before shutting it behind her and locking it thoroughly. She's wearing a rusty coloured shirt that's tucked into a checkered skirt and it itches in his throat with how much he would like to touch her, in any way, because she looks _beautiful_ , and just tucking the strand of hair escaping over her forehead away would be enough right now.

"Were just hanging out." he says, still looking at her as she nears the car. Scott makes a noise of dissapproval low in his throat, but then he can't say anything else because she's climbing into the backseat and is greeting them in her usual sense. 

"Who of you ate an onion bagel this morning? Honestly, have you heard of tact?"

Scott glances guiltily at her in the rear-mirror and Stiles stifles a laugh. 

"Uh, I might've, ate something... onion-y" He admits and Stiles snorts.

He can practically hear her roll her eyes and a loud and pointed sigh is heard from the seat behind his. He turns then, twisting uncomfortably where he's sat with the seatbelt still on and his right arm in an awkward angle once he's finally able to see her.

"Hi." He says as their eyes meet and her arms unwind a little bit from where they have been crossed up against her chest. It must be showing on his face, what he's thinking.  _You're beautiful, You're beautiful, You're beautiful-_ because her eyes grow big and a unsually careful smile slips onto her face.

"Hi." She answers breathily and another moment passes. There's something on her face too, she's saying something by painting it over her features as well, but he can't really concentrate, because she is smelling really good and he isn't driving for once so he can stare all he wants.

"You good?" He asks, and it sounds a lot like he's asking her to stay which... Well, they're in Melissa's Prius and Scott's  _right there_ , so the answer to her previous question would be no, he has infact  _not,_ heard of tact. Apparently though, she hasn't either. 

"Yeah." and was she leaning this much forward before? "You?" she asks and he feels dazed with it. With her right there and not 3000 miles away like she's been for the last few months. She's right there and she said he makes stupid jokes, which  _wow_ ? There's empirical proof of his good humour, but the point is that she also said he makes her feel like the best version of herself, and that's something, isn't it?

"Yeah I'm..." He licks his lips as he looks at her, mouth suddenly feeling dry.

"GUYS!" Scott exlaims, sounding on the verge of panic as he startles Stiles out of his strange haze. He whips back into his seat out of pure surprise and he can hear Lydia make an sudden intake of breath in the back. "I need someone to read the map for me!" Scott explains when Stiles glares at him.

"Were in Beacon Hills Scott. Where could you possibly want to go that would call for a map-reader around here?" Stiles asks, astonished with Scott's sudden antics.

Scott glares back at him, but keeps his voice chipper, motioning between their lips very subtely as he speaks. 

"Oh! You can never be sure enough." 

It takes Stiles a moment, but then he almost blushes when he realizes what Scott is getting at. He rips the glove compartment open and digs out the map before grumpily sinking deep into his seat unfolding it roughly. "Fine." he says. Because no way is he going to acknowledge that Scott thought he was interrupting what may have been a kissing-moment with Lydia right there. No way.

Instead he stares down at all of the roads that he knows by heart, printed out on yellowed paper and says,

"So where d'ya wanna go?" 

 

 

*****

 

 

"No but look at this."

She flashes him the content-index on the cartoon with pasta, and before he's actually able to read anything she snatches it back and starts reciting it out loud.

"'Locally farmed' and 'Rich of Fiber' but it doesn't say it's ecological. Not in actual words."

He rolls his eyes as he unties the "I'm Kind of a Big Dill!" apron from around his waist and hangs it on the hooks next to the microwave. "It's lunch Lydia, it's not a statement." He observes as he starts reaching into the cabinet above the dishwasher for the plates. She narrows her eyes at him and carefully puts the cartoon down on the counter before raising a manicured finger towards him. "Do you really want to be on the wrong side of history?" she accuses, standing up from her stool and brushing off her skirt before taking the plates from him to put on the table.

He actually feels kind of bad when she says things like that, so instead he raises his eyebrows and shrugs in defense.  
"I didn't even buy it." He points out as he lifts the lid of one of the pots.

"That's true." She agrees, and he preens a little bit because it feels like praise somehow.

"I guess it's better than those terrible micromave-dishes he used to buy." She thinks out loud, obviously reffering to his father's horrible eating habits. Stiles winces at the thought of them, terrible doesn't cover it. Thing is it seems like Noah's hands just automatically reaches for whatever products contributing to high colestrole the most in the store if Stiles doesn't remember to scold him for it when they talk on the phone and he's away at school. He knows for a fact that his dad shame-shops 'un-processed' shit at Whole Foods everytime before he comes home during break, high-fibered pasta only proving him right.

"Voilà Mademoiselle." He says as he unceremoniously drops the pot on the table between them and sits down as she starts loading her plate. It's only pasta and sauce, but Lydia looks at him as if he's a culinary genius if he presents her with as much as pot noodles, so it feels alright anyway.

They're in the middle of eating, when the unidden thought of  _easy_ strikes him again. They're so close to easy like this. She's on the other side of his kitchen table, taking small huffing breaths as she chews because of the too warm food in her mouth, and he thinks it's cute in a way that doesn't say  _best friends._ He wants to kiss her on the mouth and he wants to wake up beside her. He wants to hold her hand, drag her out on stupid dates that she'll secretly approve of and introduce her to his friends on campus. He wants them to be together in the simplest way possible, he wants them to be easy, always, and maybe... Maybe he has to make it that way.

His younger self had always had these fantasies of him and Lydia, childish, unfiltered and amazingly off beat once he actually got to know her. Him at twelve had looked at fairytales with the prince saving the princess and thought-  _ah. Adequate goal._ He wishes he could go back to that kid and tell him that- 'It's not going to be like that. It's going to be better, and it's going to be worse.' Tell him that, 'She'll save you too. In more ways than you thought possible.'

"Lydia." he says, and for once, its with intent. 

She must hear it in his voice, because she doesn't meet his eye as she answers, pushing spaghetti around on her plate without actually lifting any to eat.

"What's going happen when you go back to Boston and I fly out to Washington?"He asks, and it's spot on without really having to use the words both of them seem to have grown a phobia of. She still doesn't look up when she answers him and it makes a sad lump curl inside of him. "What do you mean?" She replies, seemingly very occupied with a long straw of spaghetti twirling around her fork.

He expects his voice to come out as harsh, demanding and angry. Instead it comes soft, and his words lay themselves over the two of them like a unescapable blanket. 

"You know what I mean." He says, and her eyes finally stray upwards to meet with his. 

She looks like a deer caught in the headlights and it makes him sad. He thought... He thought that... He thought that if he could ask then she could answer. But he is suddenly tired, watching her shrink again. He doesn't want to shrink her. He thought that maybe he could be part in helping her grow, but if she looks at him like that then obviously, he had been wrong. 

He doesn't know how long they sit like that, looking at each other, but he knows that when she stands to leave, chair scraping loudly against the floor, she has tears in her eyes and her voice almost breaks as she grabs her jacket from where it's slung across the kitchen island.

"I have to go." Is all she says and he stays put in his chair, silently watching her gather her things. 

When the door shuts behind her he follows her steps across their driveway. Strangely, as he watches her walk away he feels like he's the one leaving. He closes his eyes and sits still for a long while.

It's starting to darken outside when he stands up, face blank and mind wiped of any emotion and gathers up their dishes.

They're not easy, and that's the problem. He just keeps convincing himself that they are.

 

 

*****

 

  
It’s pouring outside and he has been flitting around the kitchen for hours not doing anything special. He's restless with the knowledge that he is leaving in two days and he has to keep distraced not to think about  _her_. Because if he does that his minds goes off in a downwards spiral he doesn't want to know the end of.

So he keeps occupied. First he fixed himself a cup of tea. Then he decided to bake something pretentious out of the book Scott gave him. More tea, more baking and now currently leaned against the counter while reading a book waiting for said pretentious cookie in the oven.

It’s one of his mother’s old romance novels and he is just getting to the part where his protagonist is finally giving in to her tall dark stranger. He sort of loves it.

He is startled out of a hot scene of love-making when the alarm to check on his cookie rings out from his pocket and he hurriedly pulls his phone out to turn it off before he puts down the book. 

He means to just glance into the oven to check on it, but as he turns a vivid colour from outside the window catches his eye.

His heart plummets when he sees what it is.

Lydia is standing on the paved walkway between his house and the street, staring at his front-door. The rain has completely drenched her through and her hands are balled into fists at her sides. She looks cold and her lips paint a stark colour against her pale complexion and he thinks she looks a bit like art. He wants to reminisce about it for a minute, but as his heartbeat rapidly picks up speed and he pushes his flannel up his arms as he rushes to the door all he can think is- she came. _She came, she came, she came._

Her eyes grow wide as he pushes the front door open and she stumbles a bit on her heels in surprise. How long has she been standing there? He stops on the edge of the porch as he watches her.

“Stiles?” Her voice rings over the courtyard and he feels like it shakes him to the core. It snaps him out of it.

“Lydia? What are you doing?”

Her eyes flickers between him and back to her car. Resolutely she takes a step forward.

“I came to talk.” She says, and makes it sound like she’s there to hold conversation about how his day has been, and nothing else.  
He stares at her for a beat. Her dress has flowers on it and is so wet that it’s practically plastered against her skin.

“Come inside first, will you?” he asks in an almost pleading tone. She must be freezing. She nods tentatively and makes her way to him over the lawn. She brushes past him into the house and stops in the hallway to take off her heels. He’s surprised every time by how much taller than her he is, it’s almost ridiculous. He also finds it weirdly hot.

“Do you want to borrow something?” he asks eyes dropping to her dripping wet dress. Her own gaze follows his and she, for the first time, seems to take notice of her state.  
She nods again and he moves around her to get to the staircase when suddenly he is stopped by a small, cold hand wrapping around his wrist. He turns, facing her by the motion.

“Wait.” She whispers and her grip on him hardens although he’s standing still. She’s looking at the place where his neck meets his shoulder and he's staring at her face.  
“I came by to- I just…” her voice trails off and he closes his eyes. He swallows hard as he hears her move and he just needs her to say it. That’s all he wants.  
And then, magically, as if on a cue, she does.

“I love you.” His eyes widen at the small sentence and finds her looking intently straight at him, parting her lips and furrowing her brow before continuing. “I’m sorry I missed you again. I’m sorry I didn’t come after you and I’m sorry I pulled away but I just wasn’t sure you wanted it yet and… I’m sorry.” Her voice rings clear and he feels dazed by the meaning of them. He’s been waiting so long for her to say those exact words that his mind goes completely blank by the sound of them.

“Stiles?” Her voice is quieter as she urges him and her grip on him is lessening by every second he doesn’t answer her, eyes flitting unsurely over his face.

“I’m sorry too.”

His brain supplies the sentence without him actually giving an effort to form it, because he has already thought it over so many times. Although he doesn’t say what for. Because he’s not sure and although he instinctively wants to burden all the blame he knows he shouldn’t. He knows he’s sorry and he knows that he loves her and he knows that he won’t let them slip this time.  
“I’m sorry too.” He repeats as he moves closer to her, taking her free hand into his.

“And I love you.” He whispers the last part.

Their gaze never breaks. They stare at each other, standing so close that he can almost smell her shampoo. Then she slowly lifts his hand up to her mouth and presses her lips to the inside of his wrist. He feels his chest vibrate as she does it, his body weakening. God, he loves her. And they’re broken but they’ll be fixed, eventually. He swears it.  
He just wants her so much.

He rakes his eyes over her and he wants her in every way humanly possible. So, when she drops their hands and takes a step back his first instinct is to follow, but with a small smile she presses a hand against his chest and shakes her head, telling him to stay put.

“Are you alone?” she asks in a hushed voice. He nods again, willing his hands to stay at his sides and watches her while trying to keep his composition. She backs two steps away before she’s grabbing the hem of her drenched dress and drags it over her head. She drops it unceremoniously on the floor with a sloppy sound and lets her hands fall back to her sides as she stares at him, completely naked apart for a pair of dusty pink panties.

He feels like he’s about to faint any second as she does it. Because there Lydia Martin is, standing in his hallway, literally wet and waiting for him and he has barely even kissed her before this, and yet it doesn’t feel unfamiliar. The curve of her breasts and the dip of her navel feels familiar in a way that makes him crave to touch her. He swallows hard as he drinks her in. All smooth skin and beautiful turns of body. There’s melancholy hanging in the air between them, it’s heavy and it thumps with every other feeling inside of him and it makes him stupidly turned on and in love in a way which hurts good.

When she raises her eyebrow, inviting him in, his hands lands on her hips a second later. 

There’s nothing soft about the way they collide together, all teeth and tongue and ripping of his clothes. There’s a burning passion and longing for having each other like this since somewhere between them being Lydia Martin and Stiles Stilinski and them being LydiaMartinandStilesStilinski.  
He wants to map her out, kiss every part of her and as she drags him down to her and lets her hands run through his hair, pull at his skin in a way that tells him that she’s also feeling this. The way she moans his name already feels ingrained in him and the way his hands travel across her thighs to find her heat as she bites his shoulder feels like a greeting of two lovers. They are, he realizes. Shit, they are.

Stiles Stilinski and Lydia Martin were made to do this he thinks when he sinks into her later, with her laid out over the kitchen table and him hovering above her breathing her name. With every sound they emit and every thrust of him into her he as they hold each other tight _tighttight_ he knows this. With every _I love you_ whispered between them and every burning touch of skin he knows this. With how she whispers _‘I think we belong like this_ ’ in his ear as he is buried inside of her he knows she knows it too.

It feels like coming home. It feels like an apology.

Actually, it feels perfect. Unbelievably good. Great. Until about two minutes after the second round as he still lays next to her on the floor trying to catch his breath, and suddenly feels the smell of  something burnt. He lifts his head from the crook of her neck and scrunches his nose for a second, trying to locate the source, when it hits him.

"Shit!" He yelps as he's suddenly pushing himself up, stumbling as he reaches for his boxers and drags them on as he makes his way around the kitchen counter. The _stupid_ fucking cake is still in the oven. He stills mid-air reaching for his mittens. Ha. _Fucking_ -cake.

"Stiles?" The worry in her voice startles him back into action and he drags on the mittens as he hastily pulls the oven open and a cloud of smoke greets him. He guesses that if anything, it was actually worth it. He dumps the black lump supposed to be an  _Baumkuchen_ on the stove and merely sighs as their fire-alarm goes of a second later. 

It's worth it though, when she laughs so much that she actually wheezes when she helps him air out the entire ground floor of the house. It's worth it when she digs out a opened package of chochlate chips and feeds him with them as they lie entangled on the couch. It's worth it when she whispers pretty things against his skin and when they lie face to face on his bed later, quietly knowing that words have always been overrated with them, because there's no questions left on the covers between them. None that hurt like they had a few hours ago at least. It's  _definietly_ worth it when he goes down on her and she has to press his pillow down over her face as she comes to not cry out because his dad could come home any minute. It's even worth it when his dad comments on the lipstick stain by his ear as they eat dinner and the both of them go red all over.

Liam makes a Whitney Houston Greatest Love Hits playlist for them on Spotify and Malia slaps a bill into Masons waiting hand as Kira catches them making out in the kitchen at the pack-meeting the next day. Then, apparently, there's not much more to it.

They have two nights together, but that's it. They're quiet the whole drive to the airport but their hands are clutched tight over the gearstick and that says what he can't. It feels terrible going back, and he's pretty sure they both almost cry at the airport when final goodbye's are due. Because this, this is such a long time coming but it's also brand new and now it's already being tested. 

It doesn't feel like a test though, he thinks as he stares down at her name in the contactlist of his phone when he's finally settled in his dorm room again, Clyde snoring happily on the opposite end of the room. It's not a test. It's him loving her, and her loving him.

Instead, when his phone starts to vibrate in his hand and her contact picture lights up his screen before he has managed to press the call button, a warm feeling he recognizes as the same one that he'd gotten when she wrapped her arms around him when they went to sleep the night before, spreads through his chest. Instead, it feels like belonging. 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Oooooooooookay. So you're here. Hopefully. 
> 
> Please let me know what you think! xoxooooo


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